


A Bespoke Shave

by yuzuki_chan



Category: A Bespoke Shave
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Even if it's casual, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Post-Hogwarts, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9557942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuzuki_chan/pseuds/yuzuki_chan
Summary: Hermione liked to watch Draco shave. The first time, as he watched her watching him, he was concerned she was reconsidering their drunken overnight sexual encounter and contemplating the best way to kill him with his own razor.





	

Hermione liked to watch Draco shave.

The first time, as he watched her watching him, he was concerned she was reconsidering their drunken overnight sexual encounter and contemplating the best way to kill him with his own razor. And although the idea of a Hit-Witch Granger did, in fact, twistedly turned him on, Draco realised he'd much rather keep his bathroom bloodless then ask her which method was ranking first.

As time wore on, though, they continued to have sex, and Hermione continued to watch Draco shave.

She said it was because she liked it. Something about how she used to watch her father, to which Draco promptly stopped listening so as to avoid thinking about the entirely too-obvious Electra Complex. Quidditch statistics rolled through his head as she prattled on about some childhood memory that he luckily was able to prevent from being committed to his. If he had to listen to one more slag's pathetic justifications, he would slit his own throat.

However, Hermione wasn't just one more slag. A fuck buddy, maybe; dare he even consider her a friend with benefits. They were far from mates, but it wasn't as if he'd picked her out of Alasdair's List classifieds. Draco surprisingly got on with Hermione whilst working together on a Ministry-sponsored fundraiser. Somewhere between planning the event as liaisons for benefactors and sponsors, and getting plastered after the last guest left the successful night they had been working towards, they had their first bang.

Instead of just one night, and against Draco's better judgement, they started something regular and thoroughly undefined. They settled into a routine: get pissed after work on Friday nights, go back to his flat, shag until they were completely knackered, wake-up, shower, and shave. Admittedly, they didn't always get to his flat before the shagging, and, more often than not, Hermione did typically end up with the shower valves digging into her back as Draco found himself bollocks deep again. Not always, though; sometimes they were good and just snogged.

But the shaving with her watching? That always happened.

Hermione would perch herself on the edge of basin counter top in just a towel, curl her knees up to her chin, and watch as he dragged the sharp cut-throat razor down his cheeks and over his jawbone. Her eyes would flick back and forth between his new, smooth skin, and the rough stubble still covered by shaving cream.

There were moments when her eyes watched his razor more closely than his face, and Draco always had to take a breath to ensure she didn't see his pulse quicken. He was concerned she'd remember the blade.

It was irrational. How could she? It had changed beyond recognition. The handle rebuild from scratch, the blade reshaped. That Draco constantly reminded himself he was wielding an innocuous grooming tool, not the murder weapon of a crazed madwoman, likely helped as well.

But if anyone were ever to deduce the origin of his razor, it would be Hermione Granger.

When Draco came across the knife that had hurt her and killed his former elf in the rubble of Hogwarts Castle, he picked it up and clenched it so hard he was sure the blade sliced to bone. He always assumed Potter had brought the knife with him to kill Bellatrix with it, a fitting retribution; but Mother Weasley got that honor. Good on her.

Not that he had any great love for his aunt--she had tortured him, as well--but she was his family, and as she had no children, her madness was his shame to bear. Draco could come up with rather reasonable explanations why his family had been so taken with the Dark Lord, except for Bellatrix. She did it for the fun of it, and that disgusted him. So he reworked her horrible weapon into the only tool he could that would serve as penance.

He had broken the blade of the hilt with his bare hands, and Transfigured the engraved metal into a single, smooth, silver blade. Instead of the macabre onyx hilt, Draco crafted a handle from his malachite cufflinks. The end product was a gleaming cut-throat razor, so unlike the instrument of death it had been made from, that Draco made sure that it would never spill anything other than his own pure blood ever again.

One morning, Hermione left her usual position on the edge of the counter top after Draco had finished applying his shaving cream, and sat directly in front of the full basin. She laced her hand around his and pulled the razor out of his hand.

'Let me,' was all she said, and it was all Draco had in him not to warn her to be careful. He was being ridiculous, there was no way she could know what she held in her hand.

She slid her left hand into his fringe, and Draco tilted his head back as she dragged the razor along his Adam's apple. His eyes locked onto to faded scars on the inside her arm as he tried not to swallow his anxiety. They both had scars on their forearms that they'd rather hide. But Draco felt he could at least try and make up for hers.

He didn't need to tell her what he'd done. He resolved he never would. She was being intimate, personal, of her own accord, and their undefined thing was now well on its way to being something quite a bit more than undefined. It didn't need to be weighed down by unwelcome memories or suspected brown-nosing.

As soon as Hermione removed the last bit of stubble and cream from his face, Draco pulled off her towel and started to snog her breathless. He quickly entwined their fingers and grabbed the razor, slicing his own knuckles in the process. Draco smiled.

Let the thirsty blade take his blood: he got the girl.

**Author's Note:**

> Believe it or not, this story actually originated in my mind before the most recent Bond film, Skyfall. It just wasn't until after I saw it that I was able to come back and finish it.
> 
> PS: Clearly this was written BEFORE The Cursed Child. Or at least, to keep it canon compliant, let's assume it takes place before any of the next gen kids are born.


End file.
